


Numbing the Pain

by miladys-winter (lykxxn)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Becoming a family, Family, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Lucien fucks up, Lucien is fucked up, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, Suicidal Thoughts, Whump, probably, they forgive him though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:56:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7722490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lykxxn/pseuds/miladys-winter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grimaud survives the attempt on his life. Cold, wet and fevered, he wanders through Paris. D'Artagnan finds him unconscious outside the Garrison, and is forced to make a decision that could change the lives of him and his friends — for better or for worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Numbing the Pain

Everything felt numb. He was cold he was so so cold. He let out a shuddered breath, forcing himself to take a step forward. Then two. Then three. Then four. He wasn’t dead. Why wasn’t he dead? He should have died. Athos should have killed him. But he wasn’t dead. Why wasn’t he dead? He should have died. Athos should have killed him. But he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dead he wasn’t dead he wasn’t dead.

He was alive.

One two three four five six one two three. Three four five six seven eight. Where was he? His legs felt numb. One two three four five six seven eight nine. Six seven eight. He was so tired and cold. Water dripped down his face. Three four five six one two three.

One. Cold.

Two. Wet.

Three. Sick.

Everything seemed so blurry. Colours merged together like smudges on a painting. Noises seemed louder than usual.

‘Bastien, don’t wander off!’

‘That’ll be ten sous.’

‘ _Oui, mamma_.’

‘Three eggs, please.’

‘What? _Ten sous_?’

‘And some bacon!’

One two three four five six seven eight nine. Three.

Three three three three.

He leant against a wall. He couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe everything was so bright and smudged together. His legs felt weak and, with a sudden, sharp intake of breath, he sunk to the floor. Four.

Four four four four.

His head felt warm and flushed. The wall was cold. One.

One one one one.

He leant against it, trying to force out breaths. Everything seemed much harder he couldn’t breathe his head hurt he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe. One. Two. Three.

One two three four five six seven eight nine. Three.

Three three three three.

He heaved and vomited and leant his head back on the wall. The sky was bright. Four.

Four four four four.

He was tired he was so tired. He didn’t want to try anymore he was so tired. He would rather be dead than this. Why wasn’t he dead? Athos should have killed him. He wasn’t dead he wasn’t dead he wasn’t dead.

But he wished he was. He should be dead he should be dead he should be dead. Die die die die die die.

* * *

D’Artagnan was returning to the Garrison from a trip to the market. Really, he shouldn’t have noticed the figure slumped against the wall. There were many homeless people in Paris. The man’s thick, dark cloak was covered in vomit. Suddenly, d’Artagnan realised, the cloak was soaking wet, as if the man had been _swimming_ somewhere in it. He came a little closer. Why did he look so familiar? Slowly, d’Artagnan pulled the hood of the cloak down, and almost gasped aloud.

It was _Grimaud_.

But it couldn’t be—Athos had _killed_ him. Athos had drowned him.

And yet here he was, soaking wet and half-frozen, unconscious on the streets. D’Artagnan didn’t know what to do.

He could leave him here to die, or he could take him into the Garrison and deal with him there. If he left him, there was a possibility someone could find him and help him. But, d’Artagnan reasoned, there was nobody else left for him. He’d killed Feron, and Marcheaux and Gaston were dead. If he took Grimaud to the Garrison, he’d be under a close watch until they could figure out what to do with him, whether it be imprisonment or execution.

That sounded the best idea.

D’Artagnan undid the dirty cloak, not bothering to mask his disgust at the stench. Then, wrapping his hands around the man’s waist, he picked him up and hoisted him over his shoulder. Damp seeped through Grimaud’s clothes onto his uniform. God, the man was _cold_. How long had he been wandering the streets? How long had it been since he’d passed out?

There was a free room in the d’Artagnan house, so he pulled off the quilt with one hand and put Grimaud into bed with the other. He pulled off the man’s wet boots and pulled the quilt back over him. It was odd. Asleep, he didn’t look like the man who’d threatened to kill them all. He almost looked peaceful. His cheeks were flushed and he clung to the quilt. He was probably freezing, and staying in wet clothes weren’t much help to him. But there was no way d’Artagnan was undressing _Grimaud_ of all people.

He was anxious to explain the situation to Constance when she arrived home. He told her how he’d picked him up off the street.

‘You _what_?’ she asked incredulously. ‘And what are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.

‘Let me see him.’ So d’Artagnan let his wife into their spare bedroom, and she looked hesitantly from him to Grimaud. ‘Oh, d’Artagnan, he’s _soaking_! You didn’t even try to dry him?’

‘Well, no,’ he replied. ‘Look at him, he’s completely out of it.’

‘Get me a towel; I’ll try and get at least his hair dry.’ D’Artagnan didn’t argue.

Constance sat on the bed, away from his feet, and gently pulled Grimaud into a sitting position. She had to hold him up as she dried his hair. She brushed her hand gently over his forehead. No wonder d’Artagnan had found him unconscious. He was fevered and was probably lucky not to have hypothermia.

‘He’s got a fever,’ she said. ‘We need to keep an eye on him. And he needs to get out of these clothes; I’ll put something warm on him.’

She began to pull his shirt above his head, but he was still asleep and his body drooped. ‘Come on,’ she murmured. ‘I’m going to put something warm on you.’ Gently she manoeuvred his arms so that they came out of the sleeves, and pulled the wet shirt off. ‘D’Artagnan, get me one of your nightshirts, will you?’

She felt no pity for Grimaud; he had put the lives of her and the people she loved at risk. She could have _died_ because of him. But looking at him, sick and sleeping, leaning against her shoulder, she felt something she had never felt before. He looked so _helpless_. It was then that Constance’s heart settled. He _needed_ them.

A small groan came from Constance’s side. Frowning, she looked to Grimaud, who seemed to have woken up. He groaned again and retched. Constance reached for him in alarm. ‘ _Oh_ ,’ she said quickly. There wasn’t a sick-bowl in sight; she’d have to ask d’Artagnan for one when he came back. He retched again; gently she began to rub his back. It seemed to soothe him, but Constance knew it would do nothing to ease his sickness. He vomited, bringing up mostly bile. Constance winced. He needed to eat.

D’Artagnan returned less than a minute later with a nightshirt. ‘Mind that,’ she said, gesturing with one hand to the sick on the floor. ‘I’ll get it cleaned up. Can you get a sick-bowl for him?’

As d’Artagnan left the room, Constance pulled off Grimaud’s breeches and pulled the nightshirt over his head. Gently she put him back into bed and pulled the quilt back over him. D’Artagnan returned to put the sick-bowl on the bedside table. ‘I’m going to write to Athos,’ he said. ‘He’ll know what to do about this.’

‘Wait,’ said Constance quickly. ‘Athos isn’t the person you want to talk to about this. Neither is Aramis. They’ve both been hit very personally by this—’

‘And we haven’t? Constance, this is a decision that needs to be made quickly! Athos can be trusted to make one!’

‘And what if he makes the wrong one?’ she asked. ‘All I’m saying is, we should give him a chance.’

‘Give him a chance?’ asked d’Artagnan incredulously.

‘Yes, give him a chance to change his ways,’ replied Constance. ‘There is goodness in him, d’Artagnan. He can change, if given the chance. And if he doesn’t—if he _refuses_ to—then you can do whatever you want to him.’

‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Fine, then. We’ll give it a try. I still have to write a letter to Athos, though. They’ll need to know.’

* * *

A scream made d’Artagnan jump, dropping his quill and running from the room. ‘Constance?’

‘D’Artagnan?’ Constance stood in the hallway, still carrying the washing that she was doing. ‘That wasn’t me.’

They took to the stairs, and climbed them two at a time to get to the spare room. Grimaud was thrashing in the bed, his face contorted in pain and fear. Constance rushed to him. ‘Shh, it’s all right—it’s just a dream—’ She reached for his arm to gently shake him, but stopped short. ‘He’s gotten hotter,’ she told d’Artagnan. ‘Can you wet some cloths for me to put on him?’

D’Artagnan left and came back with several wet cloths, which Constance took from him and began to put on Grimaud. ‘We need his fever to break—’ she said. He’d stopped thrashing and seemed to have stilled. ‘I think it’s over—the fever will probably get worse before it gets better—hopefully this is the highest it’s going to go. I don’t really want a doctor here.’

D’Artagnan nodded. ‘He should eat,’ he said. ‘When he’s awake enough, you should get something in him, even if it’s only stew.’ Then he looked from his wife to Grimaud. How could his life have changed so drastically in less than a day?


End file.
